Recently some of our awesome authors have been guests on podcasts in which you can pick their brains and get to know them a little better as humans outside of their written words.
We’d also like to give a shout out and huge congratulations to Meliza Banales who recently competed in the Literary Death Match in Los Angeles against recording artist Mody and KILLED IT/ absolutely won like we all knew she was going to!
Most dreams fade, but sometimes you have a dream that leaves an indelible impression upon the ridges of your mind, like footprints on wet sand. This is the story of one of those dreams, but in order to tell you the story of the dream I need to tell you the story of my first acid trip. Continue reading →
Tomorrow, after yesterday I am Latin-
Dominican woman in America.
Singing a Reggaeton laden lullaby
And it sounds like:
-rent raised four hundred times the minimum wage
-seven hundred times my aunt’s wage. Continue reading →
The respectable face, has an air of concrete.
Somehow, the lassitude of a greater
Era pulls out the source of memory.
The wild water surges up, the desert covers
skin and hope and us. This black lung
of a man holds a woman losing
happier to be crunched. Continue reading →
What have you learned about yourself from being a creator?
I’ve learned that I am a fighter, that I am sensitive, that I am gentle and fragile at times, but also strong, and courageous, and fierce. I’ve learned to appreciate myself and to nurture myself. I’ve learned that connecting with ones sadness and pain is part of how you heal. Continue reading →
Dream: The zombies run after me, Ilía, and other children I don’t know. Where is Ámara? Why isn’t she taking care of her daughter? They’re not my children. Only Ilía kind of is.
Dream: Abuela speaks to me like a train whistle. I wake. Just the railroad behind the house coming alive.
Dream: John is tip-toeing outside his apartment. My mother and I are inside. He tip-toes, but I can see through the gap in the front door how he slides his loafers back on before he inserts his key and comes in. My mother meets John and says, “He’s nice.” She doesn’t know what else to say, my black eye says a lot, she says, “He really does have beautiful eyes.” Continue reading →